


Living a lifeless life

by Costa_Cat



Series: Scenes I write from my rp... [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Also my dumb ass said head and not heed please ignore it I'm dumb, Angst, Dehumanization, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Keith tried his best, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, M/M, Oooooo, Rape, Suicide Attempt, This is really dark, Torture, Tortute, also mentioned - Freeform, angsty, app I spelt it wrong, at least, but seriously this is really really really dark so plz head my warnings, but the rape isn't really described but still head the warning, he's a real bad mess ok, hella torture, i guess, i proof read this 85 times I swear if there's one mistake I'm giving up, like two, no happy ending hm?, not this time tho..., not yet, oh other rapes are mentioned, ok I think I'm done...?, probs not - Freeform, saviour Keith, suicide mentioned, this is dark, uhhh, um I think this is it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 17:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Costa_Cat/pseuds/Costa_Cat
Summary: Lance gets taken by Lotor and he loses everything. He can't think for himself. He has no sense of anything. He has long since passed the breaking point. Even if he gets saved, he will always be back in that cold little cell called home.





	Living a lifeless life

**Author's Note:**

> YOOOOOO I'm baccc with this gross ass torture fic.
> 
> Okay so I do a rp and Lance gets tortured in it so this is gonna be one of the scenes so I decided to write it out??? So I'm putting this as part of a series bc I'll prolly right more but I'm unreliable as fuck so I'm not actually gonna make it a proper story. I've already written one more bit to it but honestly I'm lazy so like... don't expect much. Anyway here enjoy this fucking sin xoxo

Pain. Quite obviously pain is the first thing Lance is tormented with. In fact, 'pain' doesn't even begin to describe how horrendous the overwhelming, suffocating agony that overcomes him is.

He realises, the pain he's in, is far, far different to the dull horror he's long since become accustomed too. He finds himself utterly transfixed with the simple, glaring fact.

Broken bones. Displaced bones. Shattered bones. Red along his skin. Deep or shallow. Long or wide. Deafening pain. One too many blows to the brain, causing intense, agonising pain that is unbearable, impossible to live with but yet it happens anyway. The feeling of something far, far too large pushing into something far, far too small against his will. The feeling of his skin tearing where it's not supposed to tear. Bleeding from places blood isn't normally found. Glass embedded in unspeakable places, causing ripping, tearing and so much more blood in a place where pain isn't supposed to be felt. But yet, it happens anyway.

These are the painless, plain agony he's used too. These are his comfort zone. He knows what to do in order to deal with each and every one. What to do in order to retreat far enough into his mind in order for everything to be distant, which makes dealing with the constant blows and hits much easier. To make the unbearable bearable.

But the feeling of a too sharp nail slicing up the left side of his face and ripping open his eye, continuing its bloody path upwards until it comes to a halting stop just below his eyebrow, finishing it's devastating journey, is a type of pain Lance has never felt before.

So there he is, sitting in a curious after math, a detached, morbid interest encompassing him as his mind screams and his body quakes with a whole new different type of agony.

It almost excites him. Something new after months of the same boring day with the same pain and the same angry words fluttering over him, surrounding him in a gruesome sense of familiarity.

He is bleeding, quite obviously so. There is another unknown substance (of course it's known to most people, but Lance is incapable of clear and rational thought) leaking unattractively from his eye.

He blinks.

A fresh wave of pain thunders tremendously through his body that's not a body anymore and a broken, cute little whimper fights it's way out of bloodied, kissed lips.

His hands are shaking. But it's okay. His hands always seem to shake these days. It's long since made its retreat into the background. Much like the circus of other pains he's bombarded with.

He cries. But it's okay too. He finds himself crying quite often. When cruel whispered lies of a dead love becomes too much for him, he cries. When he is met with the all too familiar sensation of something far too big pushing into something far too small, he cries.

The same, sick, almost excited feeling returns to him now. As he is crying from an eye that's no longer an eye, and it's different from dully crying due to a carousel of boring, repetitive pain.

Crying faded away too, something he barely even realises is happening until artificial coos and soft touches with a hidden threat beneath them are being bestowed upon him.

Until now, however, as the dull act of crying is lurched to the very fore front of his mind as pain accompanies every red tear that makes the very familiar path down his cheek.

Blood tears. Red tears. Something new... something interesting.

Something utterly, utterly devastating.

"I trust you'll think twice before daring to break a rule?"

It's his voice. It's always his voice. He isn't allowed to hear anyone else's. It's against the rules.

And yes, Lance will certainly think twice before breaking another rule.

His self appointed lover scoops him up effortlessly. Lance does not struggle. He does not cry for help

He isn't about to break a rule now is he?

He is slack as he screws his eyes shut against the offending sun as he's carefully carried from his cell. His room. Pain blossoms brilliantly as he does so and he's left to wonder with a distant curiosity if crying will always hurt. Will each blink bring pain?

Is this just going to be another thing for Lance to struggle in getting used too, before it fades off into the background, joining all the other used and discarded pains?

Lance thinks yes, that's exactly what will happen.

He doesn't react as Lotor pecks his bloodied, pretty lips as he's gently placed in the healing pod. He allows himself one question, one query over his current, deadly situation: will he see from that eye again?

Lance thinks no, you can't see the world with an eye that's not an eye after all.

His carefully allowed question is answered as slumps gracelessly into eagerly awaiting hands an unknown amount of time later. He is no longer aware of the passage of time.

He feels nothing when he proves himself correct.

Lance has one eye now. Something he must get used too. Something he's already getting used too.

Blink.

No pain.

Lance finds himself unsure on how to feel about it.

He thinks it's because a soft, familiar voice hasn't whispered in his ear, telling him what to think and how to react. So until that happens, he remains empty. Blank. His face void of everything.

A doll.

Lance is a doll.

The dim light of an overdue realisation carefully adds a tinge of curiosity and a splash of satisfaction to his face as he pin points exactly what he is now. Who he is.

A doll.

Lotor's doll. His favourite doll. One that isn't finished being made yet, one that is still being carefully sculpted under talented, patient hands. One that is being moulded to be the perfect little toy for the Prince of the Galran empire to use in any way in which he pleases.

Lance is doll that gets punished when he's bad. When he dares to let forbidden words spill from his trembling lips, he loses the privilege to speak at all and his lips get carefully sewn together by gentle, artistic hands. When touches from anyone but his lover (his owner) are planted against his skin, even if it's against his will, he is to be wiped clean of the traitors touch. A bath full of acid to burn his skin away so they could start anew. Fresh.

He is a broken doll. He is a broken doll with one working eye.

Soft, painful, feather light touches ripple across his back, forcing him to regain a sense of his surroundings.

He is in Lotor's room. This is rare. This in an honour (or so he's told). Lance doesn't normally get the privilege of spending more than a moment inside his owner's room. Yet it's happened.

He is sitting on a chair, the pain of being forced to sit down is pushed into the background.

A mirror, tall and proud sits in front of him. Lance carefully averts his eyes. His eye... Lance has one eye now.

Lotor is stood behind him, his arms in their usual position around Lance's too skinny waist, and his face nuzzles it's way into his scarred neck.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper baby" he murmurs shamefully into skin that's too scarred to even be considered skin. His tone eerily resembles that of a partner who maybe shouted a little too loudly at their loved one. Not a partner who lashed out in thunderous anger causing living death to lose even more of itself. Causing a poor, broken boy with too much bone and not enough to skin to lose the ability to see out of an already dead eye.

Lance does not react. Lance does not know how to react. He is just a doll with one eye that hasn't been told what to feel yet.

"Do you forgive me?"

Playful yet serious. A kiss to his neck.

Lance does not know if he forgives him. He is an empty, hollow doll that hasn't been told what he thinks yet

"Yeah..." Lotor forgives himself. Finally. "You forgive me alright. You're a good boy for being so kind to me"

Lance forgives him. He is a doll. And although he's been told how to feel, what to think, Lance is still empty. Still hollow. Still a broken, lifeless doll with one working eye.

Elegant fingers grip his jaw and force him to gaze in the direction of a grand mirror that one would only find in a respected Prince's quarters.

A scar. A scar advances unattractively from his left sunken cheekbone, over his eye, a beautiful ocean blue now dulled to grey, milky white, and falling short just below his eyebrow.

Another scar to become just another forgotten part in his grotesque collection. Only, not forgotten. As Lance can't just awkwardly pull down his t-shirt with fumbling hands in order to keep his monstrous secret hidden. Or, perhaps indeed forgotten. As Lance hasn't had the privilege of wearing anything but bloodied, ruined boxers since he first stepped an unwilling foot into the everlasting fiery pain of hell in which he finds himself suffering in every slowed blur of a painlessly painful day.

It's ugly. It's unattractive and Lance no longer wants to gaze on his eye that's not an eye.

Disgust rises up within himself, and with it, a red hot hatred that almost burns brighter than his hellish surroundings.

Lance is a doll that is empty, hollow.

Until he is not.

This is one of the rare occasions that Lance has the privilege of feeling and/or thinking for himself. These moments, however, are becoming few and far between as his torture and manipulation march forward with no one daring to breathe a word against it.

They are not good feelings. They are of anger, disgust and hatred. He has a deep sense of scalding hatred directed at himself. He is disgusted with every part of himself. From his slightly unresponsive hands, to his far too skinny legs, too the overwhelming, tsunami of scars that drown and dominate his body that is no longer a body.

Seemingly sensing his immense self hatred, Lotor tuts in what's supposed to be a cute way, and plants a soft kiss against the worn skin of his sunken cheek.

"Now now, enough of that" he reprimands, a false look of love spread thinly across his face. "You may be a little ugly now, but I still think you the world. Lance, baby, I am in love with you. I am utterly in love with your scars. Looking at them... feeling them against my skin..." a shudder, fingers trailing down his body, tracing the very scars he's referencing, and a subtle change to his face and tone informs Lance exactly what is going to happen next.

"God you must know by now how arousing you are." He purrs into deaf ears long since used to hearing whispered words like these. "I still love you. And I'll still have you. Your scars will never deter that"

Lance supposes, somewhere in his ruined brain, that Lotor thinks he's being calm and reassuring. Lance however, does not feel calm or reassured. Instead the ever familiar sense of distant dread twists in his stomach as Lotor picks him up effortlessly, discarding the chair like it's nothing, and bends Lance over the desk with firm hands on his back, the hidden strength just daring Lance to fight him back on this.

Lance will not fight him. After all, it's breaking a rule. And Lance does not break rules anymore. Except he does, but that's hidden not so far in the distant future, and he is brought sharply out of his pointless inner ramblings as the well known sound of Lotor's pleasured groan reaches Lance's worn ears, which cruelly compliments the feeling of something too big pushing into something too small.

"There's a good boy" Lotor coos at him, his hands threading themselves through Lance's hair, stroking it soothingly, lovingly, as his hips wait for nothing before he's thrusting into him.

With each painfully painless thrust in, the desk hits up against the wall, creating an irritating sound that slowly eats away at Lance's sanity.

Rip. Tear. A gush of blood that Lance is so used to he longer even registers it's existence.

The burning hatred returning startles him as he is smothered by it. Only, it's not directed towards himself. Or Lotor.

It's directed at K-

It's directed at Ke-

It's directed at Kei-

Lance can't even think the name. His own fear renders him completely and utterly incapable of even thinking the name of his most treasured loved one.

He is angry because he made Lance live. He is angry because it was his frantic and panicked fingers that forced Lance to throw up the abundance of sleeping pills he swallowed in yet another mindless, desperate attempt to chase the merciful release of calming death.

He hates him. He hates him because he whispered soft truths about life getting better, only they weren't truths and things didn't get better. Things got so, so much worse.

He hates him because even the mere mention of his name lights a fire inside Lotor's eyes, and causes unimaginable punishments to thunder down on his terrified body, a body in which the skin barely stretches across his broken, deformed bones. (Bones that will crumple to dust at the smallest fraction of pressure.)

He hates him because he convinced Lance to put down the razor, convinced him that life was worth living. Convinced him to give life a chance. And here Lance is- he lived to have a psychotic maniac claim him as his own. To claim him in kisses. To claim him in bites across his skin. To claim him in staining his tanned skin with the whiteness of his own release. To claim him in the familiar, rhythmic movements of being pushed into over and over again until white mixes with red, working in tandem to paint his insides.

He lived to live a lifeless life.

And worst of all, he hates him because he doesn't hate him. Because he loves him more than anything, and although the thought of another's man touch causes fear to course through his body as his stomach curls and twists, he wants to lay his one eye on him again. Wants to experience his reassuring presence once again and he desperately wants to relearn what actual love feels like with him by his side.

And he hates him for that because it's against the fucking rules and if Lotor ever finds out about these deep, securely hidden feelings of fearful love then he'll get punished in ways that causes Lance's sunken chest to stumble under the weight of crushing panic attack as he dares to imagine what would happen.

"So good baby. Always so good for me"

The disgusting moaning sound echoes throughout the room and white mixes with red inside him and Lance cries. Lance always cries when something too big pushes into something too small.

Yes. His distant curiosity is satisfied as pained tears escape his eyes.

Crying will always hurt.

When carefully placed back in his cell, cold concrete collides roughly with his most recent injury, and the ever familiar feeling of blood pooling in his boxers washes over him as soft welcome back.

A sad, pained sound falls from his lips and Lotor is there, as always, his mouth against his in a way that is supposed to be something soothing but really just increases Lance's desperate need for his worn heart to give in, for his strained and struggling lungs to fail at taking in air, for his charred and ruined brain to just... stop.

Another whimpers runs free from his bloodied, kissed lips (now wet with shared saliva) and Lotor just sighs.

"Unfortunately, I can't give you any pain relief as you were bad. You know what happens when you break a rule"

His voice was so soft... so loving... so gentle... so completely and utterly fake and he sways as unconsciousness creeps up on him.

Lotor, of course, notices this.

"No sleeping my love. Not when I'm not here" he reminds him gently. A kiss is pressed to his temple and a hand curls in his now longish hair.

"Next time, you won't be bad. You won't break a rule?" A kiss to his nose finishes off the falsely soft statement.

In a well practiced movement, Lance went along with whatever Lotor said with a nod of his too heavy head.

Disagreeing with Lotor means a broken rule, and Lance must think twice about breaking rules.

Lance will not break rules.

The door creaks closed, the sound of several locks clicking in place is his only company.

Now alone, he slumps back, shutting down completely. When Lotor is present, shutting down means breaking the rules.

But Lotor is not present and so his pained gaze turns blank and his face slacks as becomes nothing. Oblivion in a human's form. (If you could even classify what Lance is as 'human').

A doll with one eye, waiting for his owner to come back to shape him into the perfect toy for Lotor to play with. To love.  
  
A doll that doesn't break the rules.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That was p fucking dark wasn't it. Leave a comment or kudos I'm gagging for validation on my shitty writing. Ok hope u had a good time.
> 
> Lance is fukking dead ok like no one can come back from that 
> 
> That boy needs some fucking MILK
> 
> Ok yeah I'm done now haha byeeeeeeee


End file.
